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Morbidbooks is a grotesque Bizarro ballet where the most profane things occur. An impious and perverse dwelling of dark revulsion.  A cozy cottage where torture porn and brutal bible tales are devised.  A quiet place to relax and spin tales of depravity and wickedness. A halfway house for the disturbed where rules no longer apply.  A safe haven for deviant serial killers to hatch their wretched schemes.  Bring your pets.  The tasty ones are always welcome.

All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.”


 CreateSpace eStore:

List Price: $12.95
6″ x 9″ (15.24 x 22.86 cm)
Black & White on Cream paper
326 pages
ISBN-13: 978-1481917902 (CreateSpace-Assigned)
ISBN-10: 1481917900
BISAC: Fiction / Fantasy / Dark Fantasy

~Pontius Pilate is cursed to be a vampire. Life after life after life.~ And for the Plata dealing Pilate, his life is more like a death sentence. His only chance surviving is to keep on selling his monthly quota of Plata. This new man-made narcotic is a potent speed-ball designed to amp up the user, while also numbing the conscience into euphoric oblivion. To nullify the pain. To stifle the torture. To run and to hid from all the anguish inside. PILATE is a drug lord vampire in this re-telling of Christ’s final days. When given yet another chance to save the Earth’s latest Christ, will the re-incarnated Pilate choose to protect Her? Or to save his drug business, his money and his friends, will the modern day Pilate instead choose to wash his hands of the whole ordeal? Pilate shall have to allow the torture and death of a Holy Person in order to save his very own life. ” For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” This is a truly Brutal Bible Tale. A dismal post-industrial future. A look at man defiled and in decline. Evil has arrived and Dominion has been taken by the damned, the demons, vampires, vicious ghosts and strange halflings. The cast-aside by-products of all the debauched rampages and scientific sins against nature. Sex, drugs, and broken souls are the only trade commodities left.


PILATE:  Director’s Cut (nice fat excerpt)

By The Grim Reverend Steven Rage

For MorbidbookS. Everything Bleeds.

I                                                                   666 )0( XXX


THE NIGHT WAS THICK AND DARK like the solitary madness of a cloistered monk. The watcher was grateful for the darkness. Because of this he could hide himself completely in the safety of the deep shadows as he gazed upon his unsuspecting quarry. The woman he spied was very pregnant and completely alone. She appeared only a moment ago from around the corner of the gas station. The woman was holding her ponderous bulk and looking all about. From the way her legs were pinched uncomfortably together, it was clear the woman had to pee.

It made the nocturne smile and his yellow eyes light up. He was the spider waiting for the fly to show up and show up she did. She even brought an appetizer with her.

The woman located the toilet and went inside. Her man was on the other side, trying to get help for their car from a closed and shuttered service station. The one watching her knew the station was closed because he was the one who owned it. Her man was getting more and more frustrated out there on the unseen side. The watcher knew he was there because he could smell human blood from a good ways off…

The woman left the restroom. She was making her way back to her man and their broke auto, when the watcher divided the darkness like dusty drapes and emerged from the other side. He came up behind her, grabbed her and spun her around. When she saw his teeth drop the woman screamed.

With lightning speed her attacker pulled her roughly to the ground where she lay helpless on the flat of her back. He straddled her, placing his solid weight on her arms. He raised his right hand and talons sprouted from rent fingertips. Before she even blinked, he buried those talons in her belly and ripped it viscously unfastened and exposed. He tore open the wrapping paper impatiently to get to the squirming present hidden inside.

The woman heard the noise of pounding feet. Her husband was coming. She glanced over her shoulder to the darkness. Both the woman and her attacker could hear her man running hard around to their dim side of the station.

The nocturne dug into her abdomen and removed a fully formed baby boy. He lifted it. He clamped his mouth onto the baby’s face. The nocturne bit and pulled it off, the whole face, all the way down to the wet fascia. The blood he slurped and sucked from the baby emptied the boy in no time. Then he drew up blood from the mother, using the baby’s umbilical cord as a conduit.

The noise of her man arriving brought the blood drinker’s head up. Skidding to a stop before him, the woman’s man stared at the gruesome scene. Pilate watched him carefully. Quickly the nocturne determined that the frightened and clean-cut young man was no real threat. The attacker removed his face from the man’s baby. Blood dripped in sheets down his face and shirt front, splashing warm onto the black asphalt. His eyes were yellow and the teeth were sharp and deadly.

Pilate looked to the man. He stood in shock at the gruesome tableau, shaking some. He saw his wife on the ground and knew not what to do. There is no karate in the world that specializes in vampire attacks. The blood drinker lifted the baby skyward and presented it as a joke offering to the father.

“Welcome to The Harbor,” the nocturne said with a cruel jaunt, “Do yourself a favor and try the veal.”

II                                                                 666 )0( XXX


THE BARTENDER WATCHED AS HE APPEARED right in front of him. He was just schlepping the usual drink orders from the usual fucked-up Harbor crowd and then the blood drinker was right there in front of him.

“What’s up, nigga?” He said to the bartender.

The shock was wearing off fast, out of necessity. Harbor Rule#1: Never let the nocturne know you’re scared.

“Nothin’ man, just grinding mine, you know how it is,” the bartender replied. “What is it? What you need?”

“It’s time to for you to re-up,” the blood drinker replied. He put the dope package on the bar top. The bartender grabbed it and placed it beneath the bar.

Motherfucker’s early, thought the bartender. But he didn’t actually say anything. He was trying his level best to survive this encounter. Not going to be easy, though. I don’t have what he wants.

He looked up and right at the blood drinker. The bartender appeared confused. He shook his head and tried a smile. Pilate was not amused.

“It’s the first of the month, man.”

The bartender stupidly shook his head in the negative, again. Pilate began to get pissed off. Which brings us to Harbor Rule # 2: Never make the nocturne mad. Even if he’s out of line, you won’t care if he graciously apologizes to you later on. You will be far too busy being dead to accept it.

The bartender’s heart started chugging. “Look, man,” he began, “I haven’t gone through all my stock yet. You’ve got to give me more time.”

Even as he uttered this sentence, the bartender regretted it.

The bartender did have logic on his side. He mistakenly thought that would mean shit to Pilate. It did not.

“Just give me the fucking ferria you got,” demanded Pilate. The bartender reached beneath the bar and removed an envelope filled with cash money. It wasn’t full, but it was close. Unfortunately for the bartender, almost full won’t mean shit to Pilate, but all the same…

Pilate looked at it, gauged its thickness and knew it was light.

“You’re short, motherfucker.” Pilate calmly relayed this oversight to his bar-side dealer.

“I know, man, I really do. But you see that’s what I was trying to explain to you: I still got shit left to move from last time. What you give me here is just gonna sit uncut for at least a week. It’ll take longer than that to move the product I’ve got.” He waited for a response. When he didn’t get one he added: “Shit ain’t moving like it should. Niggas be broke these days.”

“That’s not it,” Pilate replied. “It’s not economics, asshole, it’s something else, something bigger than money.”

“What’s that mean?” the bartender asked.

“Never you mind about that, negro,” he said. “Just do your job and get me my flow.”

“I’ll try, Jefe, but you can’t get blood from a stone, you know.”

Pilate appeared to be thinking on that one. It didn’t matter though. The blood drinker had dope to flip and the bartender was standing in his way and wasting his time.

Which brings us to Harbor Rule # 3 …

“I’m sure you’re right, but that’s a ‘YP’.”

’YP’? What’s that mean?”

“That means it’s your problem, bitch, not mines.”

No man would ever dare say disrespectful mess like that to the bartender. He was a former cage fighter. He was as big and bad as any Harbor motherfucker can be. Right now none of that held water. The bartender was scared more deeply than he’s ever been.

Pilate the blood drinker was no man. He didn’t give a hairy fuck what the mammoth albino had to say.

The bartender was willing to try. He made to comment further and Pilate stopped him cold. He leaned over the bar. He stared daggers of yellow into him, stopping the bartender in his tracks.

He immediately backed up in the fear that managed to pendulum from might get hurt to gonna die badly in a humming bird heartbeat. Pilate leaned in further.

He said, “This here business runs by the law of supply and demand, nigga. This simply means that I supply you with dope on the first of each month and I demand you pay me cash on the barrelhead at the same time. It’s not when I can, motherfucker, it’s the first of the month. You feel me? It’s not rocket science, punch-bag.”

The bartender got him. Afterward he stared scared at Pilate. He watched the nocturne as he fingered the umbilical cord the sick fuck had around his neck. It looked like a dying kerchief. After the bartender clocked that gross shit, he felt Pilate alright. He felt him right down to his very core. The bartender nodded his head, scared out of his mind. Pilate was controlling him, building the fear. He would not let the bartender go until he understood to his fullest extent. He didn’t want to have to have this conversation again.

Now that he got the bartender’s attention, Pilate asked: “Isn’t your baby-momma pregnant again?” Pilate asked him. The bartender nodded the once. “I’m afraid I’ve developed a taste for veal,” the nocturne explained, still fingering the umbilical cord. “Come up short again and I’ll be forced to pay your loved ones a visit.”

Pilate saw the bartender’s crotch. He sneered at it. The bartender glanced down. He saw the small wet stain as it spread out large and all over the front of the bartender’s pants. He understood.

Pilate released him at about the same moment he heard his name being whispered, way in the back of the bar. A young human couple was sitting there looking at the blood drinker and talking about him.

The nocturne turned quick to stare right back at them.

The bartender was still soaking his shorts. As impressive as his standing record is, all his cage fight wins mattered none at all. At least not while the motherfucker stood pissing down his leg in fright like he was.

III                                                                       666 )0( XXX


JUAN AND MARY KNEW THAT PILATE was a blood drinker and they were smart enough to be afraid. Even still, they were dying to meet him. He had it all and they wanted in.

The couple sat in the bar sipping cocktails, just as they had done every evening for almost two weeks straight. They watched him appear. Just appear, man, right out of thin air over by the bartender.

The nocturne handed the nigga a package which vanished beneath the bar top in an instant. It wasn’t a pattern, exactly, not one that could be fingered by them, but they knew he would eventually show up because the dealer had to deliver his drugs. Juan and Mary knew if they were patient and waited long enough, Pilate would show.

The small, tightly wrapped package should be Plata if they knew their guy, which they did. The bartender handed the vampire an envelope; cash, most certainly.

Pilate peered inside the envelope, checked the denominations, gauging the thickness. He didn’t count it though. The blood drinker didn’t need to. No one in their right mind would be stupid enough to butt-fuck the drug dealing nocturne. Even so, he looked like he could use the help of a couple of down motherfuckers like Juan and Mary. You know, to help with the day to day. The young couple just needed a way in.

Pilate looked at the bartender. He said something Juan couldn’t begin to hear across the distance of the bar and the slow, deep throb of the hard Thug Love gangsta shit blasting forth from the DJ’s station nearby. Whatever it was must’ve scared the god-fuck outta the dude, cuz he stepped back and put his hands up in surrender and fear. The bartender backed up a quick two-step as Pilate leaned in, his long tightly curling hair spilling in a wave, obscuring his face. The menace in the gesture and what he must have said was full and uncomfortable like a dildo on a church pew.

The bartender looked frightened bad, dropping his arms and folding his hands. He lowered his head, nodding in supplication, staring at his feet. His quaking Juan could see even from across the room. The nigga was a big dude, too, really more imposing than even the blood drinker. But the poor, scared fuck was not and the nigga threatening him was.

“My God,” Mary said, watching the scene with Juan, “You ever see that big fucker scared before?”

“Only now,” he replied. “It’s interesting though.”

“For sure,” she spoke, took a quick sip of her cocktail. “We are looking at the right dealer to hook up with, that’s clear.”

Juan nodded his agreement, noting how Pilate stood straight and then in one quick movement, turned to look right at him.

“Fuck,” spat Juan, his own fear bursting within. That nigga’s eyes were yellow and backlit. They looked like a night hunting panther’s, glowing as they were at Juan.

Then, just like that, he disappeared. As quickly as he came, the blood drinker vanished. Juan turned quick to Mary. She was still glancing that way. He opened his mouth to speak and saw the color vanish from her face. Her lips quivered and her eyes grew wide. She then backed up and Juan turned to see.

And there Pilate was, standing right in front of Juan and Mary’s table. Speechless, they stared at the vampire and he right back. His long hair did nothing to obscure the yellow eyes and prominent teeth. The umbilical cord around Pilate’s neck they could not place. They both knew it was organic, though. It smelled of decay, bad tidings, and dead blood.

No one said a word. And then, without a single word, Pilate dissolved on the spot, gone without a trace. There was some displacement of air, a slight cold whoosh and that was it.

It was a few moments before Juan and Mary could breathe and the bartender, they could see, was even more fucked up by his encounter than they. From where they perched, they could see the bartender shaking like he had wet hair in a meat locker. He turned to the racks of liquor behind him, ignoring customers coming up. He poured himself three big shots of top shelf tequila, slugging them back, one after the other. When finished, he pinched the bridge of his nose, shut tight his eyes, leaned on the ledge running below the bottles. He collected himself with a final big breath, straightened and went back to work.

“Wonder what was said,” Mary mused; shaking her lonely ice cubes at a passing barmaid and was ignored. “Just when I really need one, you bitch!” she yelled after and was still shunned.

Juan handed her his mostly full drink and she threw it back.

“Jesus, who knows what he said,” he muttered, thinking. “I mean, shit, baby, motherfucker didn’t say even a word to us and I feel like climbing into a hole and pulling the earth in after me.”

“Exactly,” she agreed. “Whatcha think, Papi? Should we just forget it?”

Juan wondered that very good point for a moment, then said: “He sure is scary, for real,” he told her, “but he’s our way in.” Mary nodded in agreement. “And once we are in,” Juan continued, “We won’t have to be afraid of anyone else, baby. Not in the whole of The Harbor.”

“We’d be the big-dick daddies, for sure.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “If he doesn’t kill us first.”

“Still,” she said, “It’s clear he needs our help.”

Mary pushed Juan’s now empty glass away and reached into her purse. She pulled out and lit a thin, pre-rolled blunt of half tobacco and half homegrown mellow kush.

“He shouldn’t even be here,” Juan mused, “it’s not safe.”

Mary pulled hard on the blunt and nodded.

“Shorties or even the two of us should be flippin’ shit, not the top dog.”

“That’s for sure,” she said, handing Juan the blunt. “How are we gonna hook him, though?” she asked.

Juan smoked and thought. He knocked ash on the already very dirty bar floor. “I was thinking of an offering.” Mary looked at him closely. “A gift,” he said.

“I don’t know,” she responded, taking back the blunt. “I mean, just giving the motherfucker a sandwich won’t do it,” she countered, “He can hunt whomever he wants, true?”

“Yeah, but he’s exposed and shouldn’t be.”

“Also true,” Mary agreed. “Oh, shit, wait,” she said, looking back to the bar. “There’s our answer.”

Juan turned to where she was looking and saw a young comely Plata fiend. She moved slow and sexy through the crowd, touching many patrons, speaking slow with a naughty smile. On and on she went, looking for a daddy.

Juan smiled at Mary’s idea. They looked at each other.

“But if we gave him a gift that keeps on giving….” trailed Juan.

“We will need some cheese for the trap, baby,” Mary added, gesturing toward the now recovered bartender. “And I know where we can get it.”

Juan sucked on the blunt again, held it in. He loosed out a big plume and handed it back to Mary.

“Go and scoop her up,” Juan told her. “Ply the little cooze with drinks and a few lines. She doesn’t look like she shoots up.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Mary agreed, noting the fiend, “At least not yet.”

“Yeah,” Juan nodded, seeing where she was going. “Now you’ll get to use some of your long dormant EMT training, get her set up for the long haul.”

“Think she’ll go for it?” Mary asked, watching her get rejected and looking more and more anxious.

Juan stood to let Mary out of their booth. “Does it really matter?” he asked. “Little baby girl over there looks like she’d fuck herself with a pool cue for a taste of the Silver and we’re gonna keep her fucked up on Plata ‘round the motherfuckin’ clock.”

“And if she doesn’t go for it?” Mary insisted.

Juan smiled down at her. He said: “I think blood taken by force will taste just as good as blood given. Don’t you, my love?”

“Yes I do, you fucking gorgeous creep,” she replied, biting her lower lip, nostrils flaring. Juan knew she was getting wet.

He bent down quick to give her a kiss.

“Go fetch,” he ordered.

Mary went to the bar. The bubblegum was leaning against some older dude, trying to laugh at his lame shit. Keeping half an eye on punkin’ pie there, Mary got the bartender’s attention.

“Two Crown rocks,” she told him, placing the empty glasses on the bar top and pulled out some cash. She laid money down for the drinks.

When the barman served up her drinks, Mary smiled sweetly, wrote on a bar napkin.

“My phone number,” she told him, loud enough to be heard by anyone giving a shit. She handed over the napkin to the bartender. He picked it up and looked at it closely. He saw the two bills folded inside. He looked up at her, Mary smiling sweetly.

“I see a 2 here at the end of your digits….that right?”

Mary nodded, “Uh huh.”

She straightened and waited for the barman to make change. She turned slightly, saw the girl losing interest. The old dude actually thought she wanted another drink. But she didn’t. She had much bigger fish to fry. Bubblegum was getting increasingly anxious, no doubt her Plata high was wearing off and she was at the very beginning edges of panic. Mary could see she was ripe for plucking.

Mary got her attention.

“What’s your favorite color?” she asked the girl. The bartender turned back and gave Mary her overly lumpy change and her cocktails.

“What’s that?” Bubblegum asked, turning full to her.

Mary smiled back at her while counting her change. It was all there: two fives, two singles and a small zip-locked baggie holding two grams of hydromorphone-methamphetamine-hydrochloride. She let her new friend see the taut little yum-yum bag.

“I asked you, what’s your favorite color?” Mary repeated, “Silver, right?”

“Yeah, new best friend,” Bubblegum cooed, “Plata is my favorite color.”

“Well then.” Mary replied with a growing knowing smile, “Come with me and I will make all your dreams come true.”

Bubblegum immediately left the bar, following Mary without a moment’s hesitation.

IV                                                                           666 )0( XXX


JUAN WENT BACK TO THE SAME dark shoddy bar, again. And, again, he went without Mary. She stayed away to tend to Bubblegum, keeping her stoned and happy. The girl still thought they both had a sex crush on her and they let that fantasy remain intact.

Juan needed to find Pilate, this time, for a face-to-face meeting. Nobody knew the vampire, or where he cribbed or how to contact him. He just showed up in The Harbor one day, killed an independent cowboy that was slinging rocks, and took over his shop. Simple as that.

That was crack cocaine back then and he’s since graduated to Plata. He was hand-delivering it though, which was a huge risk for him. He needed a set-up that allows the blood drinker to run the show while dope gets flipped without it touching his hands. Pilate needed a spot to peddle, shorties to clock, a safe lair and Juan and Mary. He just didn’t know it yet. Juan was going to explain it to him as soon as he could be located. Which is much easier said than done.

It didn’t matter, however. Juan wanted no one but his Mary and him in on this plan. The Harbor may be a post-industrialized ghetto shit hole, but they knew small town rules still applied. Everybody knew everybody’s business: who was zoomin’ who. It’s just like Mayberry, but with a much higher body count.

They could tell no one; trust no one. One word of what they were planning and niggas might kill them simply out of hate because they hadn’t thought of approaching the vampire Plata dealer first.

It does not take much to get dead in The Harbor, son. I shit you not.

Once again, Juan made his way through the drunk and fucked-up bar crowd. He was nervous as all hell. He’d been drinking more than he should, smoking super-strong ghetto weed constantly. Finally, after almost two weeks of this nerve-wracking shit, Mary pleasantly surprised him with a handful of muscle relaxing pills which he doled out to himself; one at a time. It helped a great deal as he trolled the same sleezy, sticky, loser filled bar, night after fucking night, waiting for Pilate. He was worried the nocturne wouldn’t show up and even more nervous that he might.

Juan did a perfunctory head check of the patrons, seeing no Pilate around, had to pee. With some growing dismay, he pushed back, deep into the bar, toward the toilets.

The restroom was filthy and crowded thick with men pissing. Trannies were hard at work sucking dick. Their johns held cash above their bobbing heads as a promise.

Drugs were being snorted, deals going down. Some nigga was desperate enough to tie his shit off in this horrid crapper in one of the door-less stalls. He was flicking up a vein, trying to feel for a bump to target his needle.

Juan went into one of the stalls. Some passed out fuck, pockets having already been turned out, slumped over to the side. His head planted into the feces smeared wall.

Juan considered trying to wake him or dragging him off the seat. Instead, it was most expedient to simply pull out his pecker and piss on the motherfucker. He wouldn’t care.

Juan was just shaking it and zipping up when he sensed someone behind him.

A cold hand dropped solidly on to his shoulder. It was strong. The talons growing out of the split fingertips dimpled Juan’s coat, punctured the cloth, and pressed into his flesh. Juan was surprised at how much it hurt. He sucked it up though and stood tall.

“You got balls hunting me,” the blood drinker told him. Pilate squeezed a little more and made Juan hurt a lot. “But do you have the heart?”

“I’m not after you, we mean you no harm.”

“What do you want then?”

“We wanted to meet you,” Juan told him.

“You and the girl you were with?”

“That’s right. I was hoping to speak with you.”

“And you are?” the vampire asked with a bit more pressure. It was getting bad, the pain, but Juan knew a test when he felt one. Juan told him their names and intentions. “Services?” he asked, “What services?”

“Whatever you need, you know, help,” said Juan, arm going numb, fingertips tingling unpleasantly.

“You two want to help me sell drugs?”

“Yes, exactly,” Juan replied

“And what, exactly,” Pilate mockingly replied, “makes you think I won’t kill your uninvited ass where you stand?”

“Because we would not dare to seek you out empty handed, Sire,” Juan told the vampire.

“Stop the ass-licking sire shit, I don’t like it,” Pilate warned, “And it will not help to keep you, or your Mary alive.”

“What shall we call you then?”

“Nothing yet,” he said. “What do you have for me?”

“We have an offering.”

“Offering? What kind of offering?”

“Blood,” Juan stated,” “A continuous stream of it.”

The nocturne smiled then. “Yes,” he replied, “That might do.”

“I can take you to Mary, where she is being kept for you. And then we can bring her to where you stay.”

“And this token of your esteem is in hopes that you and Mary can work for me, with me? Is that right?”

“Yes, exactly,” Juan agreed. “We can be of great value and help. We can assist and protect you.”

“What do you hope to gain and I expect the truth from you,” Pilate advised with one more, tiny squeeze, “Your life, where you stand, depends on it.”

Juan did not have to think, Mary and his motivations had never changed. “We want in,” he said simply, “And you are the way.”

The vampire was silent as he removed his painfully frigid grip from Juan’s shoulder, blood seeping now from the talon punctures. Juan could feel him moving close to whisper in his ear.

“Well, seeing as you two now work for me,” the vampire replied, “I guess you should call me Pilate.”

V                                                                                  666 )0( XXX


PILATE’S MAIN LAIR WAS IN AN abandoned church at the very end of a lane of old houses. All crosses and signs of Jesus Christ had been long removed, the church itself still seemingly empty.

The grounds surrounding the church were littered with trash, the grass long dead, weeds proliferating everywhere. An ancient and twisted oak tree stood sentinel and it alone hinted at any life on the forlorn property.

The old church may have looked completely desolate, but it was not. Inside, Juan and Mary could see the den potential in the old church. It would never make the cover of Lairs and Gardens magazine, but the young couple began making preliminary plans as soon as they saw the place.

Meanwhile, the vampire was being shown his gift.

Bubblegum was brought into the church via the back. She didn’t fight them a bit as she was led down the stairs to an old bomb shelter Pilate used as his bedchamber (which was smart) but the door wouldn’t lock (which was not). Juan added it to his list of shit to do. He would have a bank vault door installed, as soon as possible, so Pilate could lock himself inside.

The nocturne had no family, friends or associates to lookout for him. He had no familiars or anyone to help him with his work or to keep him protected and safe. No one had the nigga’s six.

His almost complete lack of social graces attested to his lonely life. Juan doubted he ever had any friends.

But his new employees, Pilate’s new friends, were here now and they did not come to him empty handed. They had brought such a gift.

The pressurized intravenous line ran from the metal IV pole standing tall next to the girl’s bed. From there it used gravity as well as internal line pressure to run the fluid on down to the hen’s jugular vein in her pretty little neck. A 3-way stop-cock kept bubblegum’s precious blood from squirting all over Pilate’s bedchamber. Heparin and saline filled the taut IV bag and kept the blood from clotting and dying. The teenage girl had an oxygen mask on her face. A big green metal tank stood tall in the corner.

She was trussed up pretty like a nicely glazed holiday ham. She was in her late teens, a good bleeder, and lay on the blood drinker’s bed.

The blood drinker eyed her closely, savoring the sight and smell of her. She was moaning softly, pulling oxygen in and waiting for her drugs. She was gyrating gently against her soft restraints.

Her eyes fluttered, the dark lashes were moist. Her lips were slightly chapped, but the breath was sweet. She was beautiful. The hep-lock plunged into a vein in the back of her hand was new and bank. You could see it pulsing.

Mary tapped out bubbles caught at the tip of the syringe and shot the girl into another world.

“Oh, blessed lord,” she moaned. When the Plata hit her hardest, her mumbling ceased and the whites of her eyes glowed, the pupils hidden, staring at herself. She turned rigid, flushed. Bubblegum was rushing her little balls off.

The girl’s breathing quickened, her skin turning bright red with the swell of oxygen pounding her shores.

The nocturne smiled, then. He showed clearly teeth that lengthened as the grin spread wicked across his pale cold face.

“Take her,” Mary told him. “She is all yours now.”

Pilate bent to her. The girl was down for it too, slick saucy and sweet. For a blood drinker, it was the best kind of breakfast in bed.

Juan and Mary stood nearby, excited and happy. They watched their new boss and benefactor as he knelt before her.

They had done it. Mary and Juan were in.

They smiled and held hands as Pilate opened the IV stop-cock and began to feed, making everyone’s dreams come true.

For a moment, Pilate lost himself. The blood was that good. He thought the blood tasted just like sipping paradise must.


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~FREE NOVELLA EXCERPT “The Place in Between” .pdf by Reverend Steven Rage~:


What’s Eating Keegan The Vegan

Authored by Justin Hunter

Keegan is a late-night public access radio show host, sexual deviant, and militant vegan. He has grown tired of his vegan cause being treated with apathy by the portly, meat-gorging, residents of the small town of Breen Gay, Wisconsin.
The time is ripe for Vegan vengeance.
Keegan harvests roundworms from a local vagrant and mutates them using chemicals stolen from the meat packing plant. He infests the populace with the voracious, parasitic carnivores. Keegan knows that the only way for the people of Breen Gay to eliminate the parasites is to starve them of meat. It is with great expectation that he awaits the oncoming utopia of Veganism.
However, the mutant roundworms will not die easily. The problems for the people of Breen Gay have only just begun…

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‘CLICK’ for MorbidbookS complete PRINT Catalogue.


~ by MorbidbookS, Extreme Fiction Publisher. on May 1, 2015.

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